


Sea Salt

by orphan_account



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2013, 2019, Alcohol, Arm Pits, Bodily Functions, Body Hair, Body Worship, Bottom Harry, Canon Compliant, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Everyone’s Sweating, Light Angst, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Memories, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Photos as Porn, Pubes, leg hair, no infidelity, past relationship, porn with angst, shifting timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Harry was young, and Nick was younger. Harry was nineteen and Nick had felt it. Rushing through their days together in a stream of near-constant texting, selfies, inside jokes. Breakfasts morphing into boozy brunches, spending afternoons acquainting themselves with London and with one another."Nick's drunk, and he can't avoid his feelings forever. Set in 2013 and 2019.





	Sea Salt

**Author's Note:**

> There comes a point when you've spent too long promising to write fic and you just have to...write it. 
> 
> @eversinceuanx on Twitter.

** _AUGUST 2019_ **

It’s been years since Nick had anything even vaguely resembling a regular, 9-5 job. He hasn’t kept office hours since his twenties, and having just said hello to 35, he can’t see himself clocking in at 9am anytime soon. He shouldn’t really be arsed about national days off, or half days, not when he works around the clock. Still, he loves Bank Holidays. 

The August Bank Holiday’s second only to Christmas, and even then it’s pushing it. May Day’s pretty decent, especially if the warm weather’s already rolled in and he can make it to a beer garden or the coast, but it doesn’t quite beat August’s. The Bank Holiday, for Nick, means friends, alcohol, poor choices and possibly a day or two away, all before the year sighs, sunburnt and hungover, and winds down for the winter. It’s summer’s last hoorah, and everybody knows it. 

He spent the Friday, Saturday and Sunday in a predictable tangle of booze and his boyfriend. He can’t remember the last proper, decent meal he ate. Probably Thursday evening’s tuna salad. It depends if he’s counting Friday morning’s fry up. He’s not. 

Something Nick never really remembers about drinking loads, eating shit, and chain smoking until he’s hoarse, is the subsequent anxiety. When August rocks up and he’s planning exactly how best to get completely rat arsed from Friday evening through until Monday afternoon, he’s in the habit of forgetting just how out of it he’ll feel as the days wear on. It’s a poor man’s Glasto. All of the come down and none of the celebs, music or wellies. 

By Monday afternoon, he’s almost a bottle of wine deep into the day’s drinking session, topping up the dregs of the previous night. Anxiety’s roaring through him, chewing at the back of his mind as he attempts to reassure himself that _ no _ he hasn’t made a twat of himself in the past few days, _ no _ he hasn’t done anything to make his friends and family hate him, and _ no _his death isn’t imminent. He pours another glass. He’s sitting in his back garden, Stinky and Pig snoring deeply beside him on the grass, top to toe on a blanket he’s laid out for them. He’s faintly aware of the humidity in the air, the moisture of the lawn beneath him. Where he’s been sitting in one position for too long, the grass has indented his skin and left it itchy and stark white from the pressure. 

Stoppering the wine bottle and slotting it back into his makeshift ice box (comprised of a clean bucket, a few tray’s worth of ice cubes, and all the freezable shapes he could find it the freezer) he checks the time on his phone. It’s almost four. Mesh is due back in just over an hour, but Nick wouldn’t begrudge him a pint in Central after rehearsal. He’d looked disgusted with life and everything in it that morning when he’d had to fight his way into his dance leggings and leave before 9am.

Nick’s debating whether or not to hunt out a second blanket for himself when a notification chimes on his phone. From somewhere. As is always the way, he doesn’t realise how drunk he is until he’s rifling for his phone on the lawn, scooting about in panic. Checking both back pockets of his jeans, under where he’s been sitting - he even resorts to waking the dogs to check whether, by some miracle, they’ve hidden it from him. Moments later, he manages to extricate his phone from beneath Stinky who’s snoozing on it happily. 

His part-hungover, part-newly-drunk brain is entirely convinced it’s going to be a text from a friend reminding him of something unconscionably awful he’s said to them. Perhaps an incriminating photo of him pissing somewhere he ought not. He’s thirty fucking five, at this. It’s not that he’s having a midlife crisis. He had a quarter-life crisis years ago - he should know. He’s just recapturing the years lost to 4am wakeup calls and poor romantic choices. And doing a bad job of it. 

With a palpable surge of relief, he realises that the notification is just from Twitter. He unlocks his phone, glances down at the screen, and chokes on his rosé blush. 

On newsstands September 3rd

@RollingStone

📷: Ryan McGinley 

smarturl.it/RS-HSHQ

Amongst his numerous other talents, Harry Styles is an expert in pinpointing the exact moment someone’s ready to mentally set him aside and move on with their life, Post-Harry. It’s at that moment, through what means, Nick couldn’t say, Harry will manage, somehow, to reinsert himself into their conscience. 

It isn’t the first time it’s happened to Nick. He’s lost count of how many weeks he spent at home pining over Harry while he toured the world, finally managing to give himself the kick up the arse he needed to not spend every waking moment thinking about him, only for Harry to send an entirely random text, or release a music video, or snog a woman in the magazines and draw Nick kicking and screaming back into his teenaged grasp. He’s got a knack for it. 

Before he opens the link - because he’s going to, doesn’t really have a choice - he drains his wine glass in three gulps. It’s not good wine, not really. It’s sippable and it does its job. As he reaches the bottom of his glass, he leaves tipsy behind and solidified his status as Properly Drunk. 

Slipping his packet of Marlboros and a lighter from his pocket, he lights one and rests the pack beside him. He knows it won’t get any easier to read the article the longer he leaves it. In his drunken state, he’s not wholly sure exactly what it is that he’s scared of. He won’t be named. Of course he won’t. Their fallout isn’t note-worthy - not that there’d be much of a fall out to describe. An awkward conversation about the inevitability of aging, changing, travelling, growing, settling down, and Harry and Nick’s incompatibility in the face of it all, followed by solid months of radio silence. Hardly a page-turning romp. 

The two of them had been page-turners, once. When Harry was young, and Nick was younger. When Harry was nineteen and Nick had felt it. Rushing through their days together in a stream of near-constant texting, selfies, inside jokes. Breakfasts morphing into boozy brunches, spending afternoons acquainting themselves with London and with one another. Pretending to be Christina Aguiliera in Nick’s bedroom, white vest tops, a slick of red lipstick, butchering vocal runs with no thought to what it meant because it meant nothing. Sleepovers, sharing clothes, smelling indistinguishable. It had been fucking naueseating and it had been brilliant. They couldn’t replicate it now if they tried. And they wouldn’t. They’d never try it now. 

Opening the link, Nick’s met with Harry’s tanned face in profile. His hair’s big, voluminous and soft to look at. His expression’s knowing. As Nick scrolls, he sees that the portrait extends down Harry’s body, stopping just beyond the delicious swell of his chest. Nick’s pleased to see that he’s still beautiful in a way that’s both timeless and shocking. 

Nick begins to read, building a picture of Harry so vivid it’s almost tangible as the writer describes Harry’s outfit on the day of their meeting. Nick can picture everything but the white hat he’s supposed to imagine atop Harry’s curls. He just can’t see it. His Harry, as he privately regards him, was more into beanies and the occasional baker boy. As he reads on, he’s struck with the impression that the writer’s describing a character.

It’s Harry. But it’s not all of him. How could it be? Fuck, the writer could spend a month with him - he probably has - and he’d still not be able to commit the real Harry to paper. This is musician Harry. Shove him in front of the Manchester Times and he’ll become Mancunian Harry. Ask him his feelings on Gucci’s latest runway and he’s Harry the fashionista. Nick’s mouth is dry. His cigarette is burned to the filter and he’s only taken a few drags. He knows so very little about the latest iterations of Harry Styles. 

Nick realises with a pang of shame that he feels sick. The swilling, wet nausea that comes with drinking too much too quickly. His mouth’s dry but his throat feels slick and jumpy. Stubbing out his cigarette in the nearby plant pot-cum-ashtray, he stands up, joints aching with lack of use. He wakes the dogs, as gently as he feels able, and picks up their blanket and his wine, taking the lot with him through the French doors into the kitchen. 

He debates pulling out a dining chair and sitting with the dogs, but decides to pour out the remainder of his wine - despite his better judgement - and take both it and the article up to bed. He’s not tired, not really, but he’s feeling melancholy and drunk and sorry for himself, reminded as he clumsily continues reading while balancing his glass and phone in the same hand as he stumbles upstairs, just how far he is away from the Harry in the article. 

Once he’s in bed, he feels markedly better. His skin’s feverishly hot following a weekend of sunbathing, and the cool cotton sheets feel like heaven as he sinks down into the depths of the duvet. He reads on, pointedly ignoring the complementary photos of Harry that he knows will only distract him. 

When he reaches the discussion of Harry’s relationship with the LGBT community, Nick’s stomach drops. He closes his eyes, letting his head flop back against the wooden headboard with a dull thump. He can feel the faint sweat on his scalp beneath his hair. Rationally, he knows that if Harry had come out as anything easily dissectible by the public, he’d already know. Twitter and his friends wouldn’t keep him in the dark about that, and as neither a fast reader nor a committed one, somebody else would’ve seen it before him. Irrationally, he wonders if this might be it. 

So long as Nick has known Harry, he’s known that he wasn’t only into girls. If their subsequent trips to bed hadn’t confirmed as much, Harry, when surrounded by the people he trusted, had never been particularly shy about the fact. Harry had always insisted that what he did, and with whom, was nobody’s business but his own (despite his penchant for bringing others along for the ride). For a while, Nick had agreed with him, assuming he’d one day go public with a partner who wasn’t a woman and give the public what they wanted. When that began to look unlikely, Nick had sensitively suggested that Harry might consider making an announcement. Nothing big or flash. Nothing dramatic. Just setting the record straight, or not, as it were. 

On this, Nick and Harry had bickered. Harry saw no issue with coming out through his refusal to label his sexuality at all. Nick admired his youthful optimism but knew it would never be enough for those who’d have Harry fit into a neat box. Harry wouldn’t budge, and the issue had been dropped. As he read on, Nick realised with pride that Harry had stuck to his guns and, thankfully, it appeared to be working for him.

Nick continues scrolling, checking the progress bar to the side of the article, curious how much Harry _ really _has to say that hasn’t already been said a thousand times. Discussed and picked over and analysed to the point of nonsense. And that’s when he sees it. 

Separating the paragraph he’s just finished from the one below it is the latest in the article’s photos of Harry. Nick does an involuntary double take. Instantly he’s uncomfortably flushed, heat rippling up the back of his neck and resting in his ears. His face is hot. He holds the back of one hand up against his cheek and almost flinches at the heat. He feels panicked and more nauseous than ever. 

Without thinking, he drags his internet browser closed, and opens up WhatsApp. His latest conversation with Mesh is already open:

** _wanna pick us up some takeaway on your way home? i'm pissed and would do some very bad things for a pizza x _ **

He’s no clue why it feels like the appropriate thing to do, but it does. He still feels wracked with unease and a whiff of panic for no discernible reason, and he needs to do _ something _to feel better before he has a full-blown panic attack on a Monday afternoon in bed over an interview and some photos. 

** _wow, jel. rehearsal's long and i’m knackered. done in 45 i think. if i get us Pizza Express what do i get in return? xxxx_ **

Nick squeaks, so entirely unable to even contemplate flirting with his boyfriend that he has to restrain himself from throwing his phone down onto the duvet. 

Summoning whatever strength he still has kicking around inside him, he closes his WhatsApp conversation and opens the article back up. 

The photo’s still there. He’s no more equipped than he was before. 

In the photo, Harry’s crouched inside what looks like a cave. His arms and legs are splayed somehow elegantly, his arms reaching up gently to hold onto something out of shot, his knees bent in a firm squat. He’s browner than Nick’s seen him in a long time. He looks different. Older. 

He’s all angular lines of black ink and soft curves of flesh and he’s as impossibly beautiful as he’s ever been. Nick aches to touch him, to feel his skin and see if it’s changed. He’s hairier than Nick’s ever seen him, a wash of brown chest hair propping up his golden crucifix. 

His armpits are hairy too. Nick remembers when Harry had spent a whole summer religiously shaving them, convinced that without the hair he’d sweat less, and subsequently smell less. It hadn’t worked and he’d still smelled like musk and _ boy, _however obsessively he cleaned and showered. Nick never told him how much he’d loved it. 

He remembers when Harry let Nick shave his armpits for him. Letting Nick run the pads of his fingers over the soft intimate skin, newly revealed from beneath its hairy shield. His nipples had pebbled as Nick had kissed him there. He’d arched into the touch, hard at the bathroom counter as Nick breathed him in and sucked his nipples into peaks. 

It had always been a question of what Harry would _ let _ Nick do. How far he’d _ allow _himself to be pushed before the intimacy became too much and he bolted to LA, or into another bed. 

Nick wonders now if Harry would let himself be pushed to his knees, pliant and sweet, and let Nick stick his dick into the damp heat of Harry’s armpit, between his bicep and ribs, closing his arm and the gap to clamp down around Nick’s prick. It’s the kind of thing Nick would’ve never dared to suggest but Harry would’ve lapped up. 

Nick knows just how soft the downy hair under Harry’s armpits would feel. He can almost see the movement of it in the photo. Soft and wiry and completely different to the hair anywhere else on his body. Nick’s intimately familiar with all of Harry’s body hair. The curly covering of his legs, lighter in colour than any other hair. The various iterations of his pubic hair, unashamedly bushy and strong smelling, trimmed close but not maintained regularly, shaved clean with conditioner to moisturise. 

Harry’s mouth rests open. A lesser model could’ve looked gormless but of course, predictably, Harry manages to pull it off. His two front teeth peek out behind his full lips and the hint of his soft wet tongue sends Nick reeling. 

Nick takes a deep, wracking breath, and smells the mingled scent of his and Mesh’s aftershave on the duvet around him. He’d give anything to know how Harry smelled the day the photo was taken. Because Nick _ knows. _Knows how Harry smells in the morning when he’s sweaty and flushed, bundled up in bed and weak with sleep. How he smells when he’s clean, fresh out of the shower and barely dry. When he’s dressed up and wearing aftershave. How he smells when he exercises, how he smells when he’s not washed, how he smells when all he smells of is sweat and cum and sex and sharpness and tang, and Nick can’t fucking breathe.

He’s boiling hot. Unbearably hot. Beneath the duvet he’s sweating and uncomfortable, his Kendrick Lamar top clinging to the damp skin on his back. He checks and sees he’s sweating under his arms, too. He kicks the duvet off himself using only his legs, clinging onto his phone for dear life. The skin of his hands is clammy. He almost drops his phone.

He peels his shirt away from his skin and drops back down onto the pillows, turning his attention back to the photo. From the moment he’d opened it, he’d pointedly avoided looking at Harry’s crotch. The photo practically invites it, but through a misplaced sense of respect and guilt he’d tried initially to keep his eyes above Harry’s chest. 

But he can’t fucking ignore it. Not anymore. Spit pools in his mouth as he gives in and allows his gaze to drag down Harry’s torso and come to rest on the tiny white shorts he’s wearing. He can’t envisage how the shorts would look if he was stood up. Would they be pajamas? Not for Harry, certainly. 

Harry’s not huge. Not really. He’s big enough to be categorised as such though, and the awareness of that always buoyed his confidence. Packed into the taut white fabric of his shorts, Nick doesn’t need to be able to see his dick to know that it’s there - the memory of the weight of it on Nicks’s tongue, the bounce of it as Nick fucked him, does the job itself. There barely looks enough room for Harry’s dick and balls to fit in the tight space left between his legs. The material’s straining around him and Nick wonders if he’s tucked his dick up towards his waistband the way he used to when he wore skinny jeans. 

Nick checks the time, and before he can think better of it, before he can even _ bother _ to talk himself out of it, he’s undoing his flies and reaching into his boxers. He’d not allowed himself to register how hard he was getting from just _ looking _ at Harry, but the first touch of his hand against his dick has him arching off the bed. 

He knows what he wants - to imagine himself wrenching open Harry’s _ Come Fuck Me _ mouth and forcing him down onto his dick. To feel the weight of Harry’s balls in his hand as he cups him through his shorts. But it’s not real. It’s not fun. It’s not like when Mesh sends him nudes from rehearsal and he can touch himself to the promise of _ later _. He’s dragging his hand across the sensitive skin at the base of his dick and he’s not excited. He’s hollow. 

Nick thinks back to the last time a photo of Harry had left him in this much of a mess. It hadn’t been a single photo, rather a series. Snapshots of an afternoon. Like most of Nick’s fondest memories, he and Harry had been younger. Harry on some far flung tour and Nick at home in rainy London trying to cram eight hours of sleep into a two hour nap. 

** _OCTOBER 2013 _ **

Nick unlocks his phone the second his eyes have adjusted to the brightness from the screen. If it’s a good day, he’ll have a text from Harry to wake up to. If it’s a bad day, he’ll have to wait an hour or two. He tries not to think about how good even his worst days have become because of Harry. 

Unfortunately, there’s no text from Harry waiting. He quickly replies to the texts he’s actually received - updating his mum on his plans for the weekend and letting Aimee know he’ll be round tonight at six - and turns his attention to his other notifications. His Twitter’s gone mad overnight, apparently. Wondering if he’s been papped looking less than fantastic falling out of one of London’s nightspots, he opens the app. 

Amidst an explosion of notifications and tweets directed at him from accounts he’s completely unfamiliar with, he sees the same photos recurring up and down his feed. 

It’s Harry. 

He’s in Australia, or at least Nick thinks he is. Remembers a bad joke Harry had made about a _ trip down under. _He finds he doesn’t give about Harry’s location. He’s on the beach, he’s wearing yellow shorts, a cap, and sunglasses. He looks fucking incredible. 

The muted black of his tattoos almost shines. Where he usually burns in the sun, he’s tanned and warm looking. Nick can hardly believe it’s only been a few weeks since he last saw him in person. He knows he’s been working out more, focused more than ever on _ looking _ the part even if he’s not necessarily _ feeling _the part, but he looks far bulkier than Nick remembers him. 

Nick doesn’t care if Harry’s ripped. He doesn’t. He knows he never will be in the way some men are. Harry doesn’t want it enough, and he’s not predisposed to that level of hardness, always remains soft around the edges however thin or muscular he becomes, and honestly, Nick’s absolutely mad for it. 

Nick's scrolling wildly, saving each photo as he goes. He’ll delete them before Harry’s back from tour. He doesn’t need him seeing _ that. _

Nick was hard when he woke up. He always is. Usually he’ll ignore it, preferring to wait until he’s got the time to really stretch it out and make it good. Bonus points if he can recruit Harry. Now, with his phone clutched in his sweaty hand, with a half-naked Harry on his screen, his dick’s straining. 

Harry’s shorts are short, and they’re wet, and they stick to the bulge of his dick and balls almost as deliciously as they frame his arse. Harry’s balls are mouthwateringly heavy and Nick has to restrain himself from cupping his own in sympathy as he sees them visibly jostle from one photo to the next. 

Nick gets the headrush that usually accompanies a bad decision.

_ No, don’t worry, fuck it, get another round. _

_ No, that tattoo’s hilarious, I’ll never regret it. _

_ No, of course I don’t mind you staying at mine for the next month, Harry. _

_ No, I’m sure Harry would love to hear just how hard I am from looking at some creepy pap pics of him on his holidays. _

Clearing his throat, pushing his glasses as far up his nose as they’ll comfortably go, and fluffing the pillows beneath his head, Nick opens his text messages and shoots one to Harry. Before he can think better of it, before he can will his erection away and reconsider whether this is _ really _the best use of his morning, before he can pause to think whether Harry will even want to hear from him, least of all about this. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. 

** _Morning popstar. or whatever time it is down under?! You had a chance to look on twitter today? You and your arse are all over it. Wish you and your arse were all over me tbh. _ **

It’s embarrassingly transparent. It’s the least sexy thing he’s possibly ever said to another man, and he’s sent it to Harry. Effortlessly sexy Harry. Cool. His armpits are slick with uncomfortable sticky sweat. He’s still hard. He wants to wank, and he hasn’t the strength to _ not _try and rope Harry into it. He never has the strength. 

But they’re not fucking boyfriends. Harry isn’t _ his _ to perve over, _ his _to send flirty messages to on the off chance he’s in the mood to reciprocate. And that’s what he’s doing. Really. It’s not like he’s trying to catch up. He’d love to catch up with Harry, honestly. But he probably wouldn’t do it at arse o’clock in the morning with his dick straining in his boxers and the image of Harry, beach mussed and sweaty, yellow shorts tight around the meat of his thighs, leaning against the volleyball post being fucked silly, playing on a loop in his mind’s eye. 

He’s losing his shit about a fucking _ boy. _ Not only that, but a boy who’s in all likelihood, _ not _losing a single shit about Nick. Before he can send a second, even more pathetic message retracting the first completely in apology, Harry replies. 

**_Nicholas :)_** **_It’s afternoon here! We’re just back in the room chilling before we go out tonight._**

So that’s it then. He’s completely washed over Nick’s embarrassing come on. His pathetic attempt to flirt from halfway around the world. Nick locks his phone, sets it on his bedside table, face down to physically distance himself from the embarrassment he’s just voluntarily brought upon himself, and burrows into the duvet. Under the thick weight of the covers, he can smell himself. Can feel his erection pressing, unaffected, against the cotton of his boxers. It’s easily been ten minutes, yet the thought of Harry, the sight of him - the potential _ what if _ \- has him leaking onto the fabric. His glasses fog quickly as he exhales a shaky sigh. Why the fuck did he do that?

Before Nick can berate himself and his poor life choices any further, his phone beeps again with another notification. He can feel his heart in his throat. Pulling the duvet down from over his head just slightly, he peeks at his phone. Of course, he can’t see the screen. It’s upside down. 

He knows deep down that Harry wouldn’t ever _ properly _rip the piss out of him. He wouldn’t even really tease. Not properly. His bandmates might though. Yeah, they certainly might. Harry’s usually pretty good about keeping his phone in his pocket, had too many near misses in the early days with the band, leaving it around unlocked backstage or on the bus, only to go back to it to find he’s received messages definitely meant for his eyes only. 

Nick grabs his phone, confirming what he already knew, the text’s from Harry. 

** _Fucking same. _ **

He screeches, ripping the duvet from on top of him, and standing straight up out of bed. Harry wants it too. Nick's lightheaded and uncomfortably sweaty and he needs to put his phone down before he accidentally sends a jumbled text of nonsense with his clammy hand. 

** _You’ve seen the pics? _ **Nick sends. 

** _The ones from the beach yesterday haha? Yeah I’ve seen. _ **

Harry sends another straight afterwards. 

** _You like? _ **

Nick feels as though he’s having two conversations simultaneously. The one he probably should be having, and the one he wants to have. He wonders if Harry’s with the band. He did say “we’re” in the room. 

** _Depends. What’re you doing and who’re you with? _ **

** _So if I’m playing Playstation with the lads in Liam’s room..._ **

** _Then they’re lovely shorts. The yellow brings out your tan. You’ll have to let me know where you bought them. _ **

** _And if I’ve just left Liam’s and I’m in my room on my own and I’m touching myself..._ **

Nick’s going to fucking burst. 

** _Well. In that case I want to drag them under your arse. Eat you out until you’re crying. Then make you come so hard that the yellow fabric’s stained white. They’re still lovely shorts._ **

** _Fucking hell. _ **

** _You asked. _ **

** _Can I ring you? _ **

** _Dunno, can you? Got enough credit? _ **

Nick marvels at his ability to present even the thinnest veil of calmness and wit in his current state of arousal. He flops back onto the bed, hastily throwing the duvet off to one side and letting it fall to the floor. He’s in just his boxers, prefers to sleep in as little as possible, and it’s still too much. The waistband feels like sandpaper against his skin and his erection’s pulsing painfully where it’s trapped. Not caring that he might be getting ahead of himself, he shuffles his boxers down his legs and toes them off the bed. 

He’s trying to avoid touching his dick. He’s been hard for so long that he doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. He’s never had the control Harry has. The desire to perform, to put on a show, to be good and to behave and do as he’s told. Fuck that. He wants what he wants when he wants it. 

Beside him on the bed, his phone lights up. It’s Harry’s contact photo, one of his shoes. His feet pointed inwards at odd angles. Harry had chosen it himself. 

“Popstar,” Nick answers. He’s so turned on he’s got to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, but he makes a fair attempt at a steady tone.

“Nicholas,” Harry’s worse. 

“Whatever do you want at this time in the morning?” He can’t resist running a single finger up the top side of his dick where it’s resting angrily against his stomach. He lifts it up gently and lets it flop back down with a sticky snap. 

Harry laughs. “It’s past nine in London, you lazy arse.” 

“Right, you can pack that in. I didn’t make time in my exceedingly busy schedule to talk about _ my _arse.”

“Oh?” Nick can hear that Harry’s grinning. He’s not far off laughing out loud, Nick reckons. Harry always gets like this when he’s turned on. Silly, giggly, embarrassed. It’s fucking intoxicating. 

** **

“Nah, I’m pretty sure you called so we can talk about _ your _fantastic arse.”

“What about it?” Harry shoots back. 

“Fuck Haz, you’ve no idea.”

“Try me.”

“You on your own?”

“Come on, I’m not really going to have my hand in my boxers right in front of that lot am I?” 

“Well who fucking knows with you lot? Maybe!”

“Heyyyyy.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Nick’s laughing now and they’ve never been good at this bit. He thinks it’s probably got something to do with why they only ever fall into bed when they’re both drunk. Probably. 

“What did you think when you saw the photos?” Harry sounds young. Younger than he has done in a while. He sounds tired. 

**“**That you looked like a fucking wet dream.” Nick wraps his hand around himself. 

“Nick,” Harry’s voice is reedy and thin.

“I’ve never wanted to wreck you more,” Nick admits, stroking his dick slowly. He can hear the telltale slap of Harry joining him. He starts quickly and is groaning long before he responds. 

“Tell me,” Harry’s hand audibly speeds up. “Please Nick - fuck - tell me what you thought.” He’s always loved having his ego stroked. Loves to know he’s being looked at. Being lusted after. 

Nick’s arching into his hand and he’s picking up momentum. Doesn’t feel _ quite _so predatory now that he’s heard just how affected Harry is in his hotel room. “Well, when I first-” 

Harry interrupts him. “Did you save any? On your phone. Did you save one of the photos?” 

Nick wracks his brain, stupid with want. “Yeah, a couple I think, yeah.”

“Look at it,” Harry moans. And, really. How typically Harry. 

“Hold on,” Nick takes his phone from his ear and puts it on to speaker. “Can you hear me okay?” 

“Yeah.” The sound of Harry’s breathing fills Nick’s stuffy bedroom and if he closes his eyes and wills away the intrusive sounds of the road outside, it’s like they’re in there together. 

“You looking?” Harry snaps him out of his fantasy. Quickly, Nick loads up the photo. 

“I am now. Jesus wept.” He runs his hand over his face and up into his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. 

“Tell me, then,” Harry’s demanding in a way that would annoy Nick were it coming from anyone else. Nick likes to be in control in the bedroom. In most aspects of his life, really. And he usually doesn’t take too kindly to being bossed about by demanding popstars. It’s different with Harry. Of course it is. With Harry he leaves his sensibilities at the door. 

“You wanna know what I think when I look at this? When I look at you, like this?” 

“Mhm,” Harry sounds drowsy with it. 

And Nick can’t tell him what he really thinks. What the photos _ really _make him feel. Because in reality, they make Nick want to load up a travel agent’s website and book a holiday for two to a far flung beach that he can share with nobody but Harry, while they fuck in the sand and get sun burnt and tender and drunk and nostalgic under the stars as they fall in love. But he’s not about to fucking say that. 

“The one I’ve saved, dunno if you’ve seen it. Probably not. Not even got your face in it. It’s just your legs and your arse.”

“Objectifying me Nicholas?” Harry asks weakly. 

“Every day, babes.” 

Harry whimpers. Nick’s learned, during the short time they’ve spent fucking, that the things Harry’s brave enough to ask for, and the things Harry actually wants, are very different. There’s nothing Harry loves more than being used and claimed and a little bit humiliated. He’d die before he asked for it, though. 

“Well it makes me want to hold you down and run my tongue up the hairs on your legs. The really fucking soft ones on the backs of your thighs. I want to brush the sand off you and lick you clean.” Nick’s far too turned on to be embarrassed. He _ definitely _will be tomorrow, but he doesn’t spare it a thought. It’s always the way, after he’s really been really horny and honest. But Harry brings it out in him. Harry brings it to the surface. Like a long wank that starts with comfortable vanilla porn and ends with shit he never knew he liked, and vows not to return to, until next time. 

“I’d take you into the sea,” Nick continues, stripping his dick firmly. “Hold your hand when we’re deep enough. Make sure nobody can see us.” He draws a breath. “Then, when we’re deep enough, I’d get my hands down the back of those little shorts,” Nick's breath hitches at the thought. Just the idea of it thrusting him closer to the edge. “Scrub you clean with just my hand and the sea water. Just enough to get my mouth on you.”

“Right there? In front of everyone?” Harry sounds like he’s run a marathon. Out of breath and almost panicked. Nick’s got one holding his phone in front of his face, his eyes burning holes into Harry’s thighs, and the other wrapped around his dick like a vice. 

“Of course, sweetheart. I know you love to put on a show.” He doesn’t want to take it too far, but God he’s not lying. “Then, once your hole’s all wet and clean, I’d have to take you back up the beach, and fuck, if everyone wouldn’t be able to see how hard I’ve got you for me.”

“Nick, I’m so hard,” Harry whimpers. Nick can hear him wanking clearly. “Fuck. No, honestly.” Harry takes a deep breath, sounding almost surprised with himself. “I’m like a rock.” 

Nick clamps his eyes shut, trying to ignore the image Harry’s painting. He needs to slow down if he’s going to last. He breathes as steadily as he can manage, easing off his dick. 

Harry notices his silence, “God - please Nick - don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

“Once we’re off the beach,” and God, Nick hopes Harry’s close, he’s holding himself back as much as possible but he’s not sure how much further his restraint can stretch. 

“I’d get you somewhere private,” Harry hums eagerly in agreement through the phone. 

“Turn you around for me. You’d need to take off your hat and sunglasses. Fuck, your hair would be a mess.” Nick doesn’t know why that matters but it _ does _. 

There’s nothing he loves more than Harry coming round to his house all done up and fresh from a shoot or party only to rip him apart, clothes strewn across the floor, foundation smudged off, hair a tangle at his crown.

“Then I’d spread you out in front of me, get you to hold yourself open, nice and wide. Your little hole would be so pretty and pink from where I’d scrubbed it clean.” Harry’s panting now. Hasn’t said anything for ages. 

“Then I’d suck the salt water straight from your hole.” Nick hears a muttered “fuck” down the line, and the sound of Harry’s hand on himself speeds up.

“I’d eat you until you didn’t know if you were begging me to stop or to carry on. Then I’ll pull your shorts back up. Spin you round, and suck you dry right through them. Fuck, I need to get a mouthful of you.”

“Oh God. Nick. God, Nick,” the slip of Harry’s hand over his dick is deafening, wet and sharp and fast.

“Harry, fuck, are you using lube?” 

“No,” he pants. “Haven’t got any. Didn’t bring any. Niall’s got some but fuck if I’m asking for it.” 

“It sounds like you’re soaking.”

Harry groans like he’s in pain. “I am. Always am. Always get like this. My hand’s so slippy. It’s dripping everywhere” 

Nick’s about to die. 

“I want you to hold the phone down next to your dick while you wank, can you do that? I want to hear how wet you are for me.” 

“Fuck - okay. Wait.” 

Nick has to take his hand off his dick. He has to. He’s far too fucking close and he’s not blowing his load before Harry does. 

“Can you hear now?” Harry’s voice is faint in the speaker, as though from across the room. 

Nick speaks up so Harry can hear him. “Yeah, go ahead sweetheart.” 

Instantly the delicious sound of Harry’s wet hand snapping up and down his dick fills Nick’s room and he has to grip the bedsheet with both hands to stop himself from grabbing his own dick and finishing himself off. 

“You sound amazing. You’re amazing, Harry” Nick offers, overwhelmed and blinded with arousal. 

“I can’t hold it much longer,” Harry breathes, forcing out each word through his teeth. Nick’s right there with him. 

“You gunna make a mess for me?” Nick’s hand’s back on his dick and he can’t stop now. Won’t be able to. Can’t hold it like Harry can. Like he is. 

“Nick, I’m gunna - fuck, I can’t” he’s panting now. Nick can only imagine how gloriously flushed and sweaty he must be. 

“Does it feel good, baby?” And he’s goading him, working him gently closer and closer to the edge. Nick wants to be right there with him. 

“Feels so fucking good,” Harry sounds like he might be crying. 

“You’re so good for me Harry. So fucking fit. You wore those shorts just for me, didn’t you?” He loves to lie to himself. “You knew I’d see them. Well everyone saw them. Bet everyone on that beach wanted you. Wanted to just take you, right there. Showing off, as always.”

“Please. Please - don’t stop. I’m gunna…” Nick knows that sound. Has it memorised.

“Fucking do it, Haz. Come for me.” 

“Ah.” Harry’s breath hitches. He’s halfway between a sob and a hiccup, jerking himself roughly. He’s wild with it. “Ah! Please, Nick. I’m - fuck. Nick, I’m fucking coming.”

The sound Harry makes is inhuman. It’s wet and disgusting and agonisingly beautiful and Nick can’t help himself. 

“Fuck, baby. You’re so good. So, _ so _ good for me,” he comes. The first spurt hits just above his nipple, he draws a deep breath as he keeps coming, the rest landing in his pubes and on his fist. His hand’s sore, almost cramped where he’s been holding himself off. Waiting for Harry. 

Always. Always waiting for Harry. 

** _AUGUST 2019 _ **

Nick’s phone beeps, wrenching him from his memories. He’s holding his softening dick and he has a handful of cum. 

Hurriedly looking around the room for a tissue and seeing none, he wipes the evidence of his weakness on his jeans, darkening the denim. Once his hand’s free of cum, he picks up his mobile. It’s Mesh. 

** _got pizza express! in the Uber back now. nah then, what do i get in return? _ **

Nick hoists his jeans back up around his arse. Closing his browser windows, he checks his camera roll to make sure he hasn’t saved any photos from the article out of habit. 

  
  
  



End file.
